


Homemade

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Chef Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic Fluff, Engineer Dean Winchester, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Omega Castiel (Supernatural), YouTuber Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Dean Winchester, a successful but perpetually overworked and overtired engineer, meets chef and restaurant owner Castiel, his new neighbor. Castiel courts him in the form of homemade meals in Tupperware containers and handwritten notes, and Dean eventually takes it upon himself to return the favor.





	Homemade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NadiaHart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/gifts).



> This fic is a gift to my lovely [Nadia](https://hartlessfiction.tumblr.com/), who won one of my FTH bids this year! Nadia, you are a fantastic friend with one of the kindest, most giving souls I have ever met. It is such a pleasure to know you, and I hope you like this fic. You are one of the few people I would write omega Cas for, which in itself is a testament of my love <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean likes to think of himself as quite the accomplished man.

He’s one of the lead engineers for the biggest biomedical company in the country, has his own expensive apartment, and even though people give him funny looks about his lack of a mate at the ripe age of thirty, he’s perfectly happy where he is. His work is his life, and he loves knowing that his passion has had such a positive impact on so many people.

For someone so accomplished, though, he’s pretty bad at… well, at just taking care of himself. He sleeps too little, stays up too late tinkering with new ideas, and sometimes just straight up forgets to feed himself until his stomach is growling like it’s gone feral and there’s nothing in the fridge.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Dean’s been tasked with designing a new prosthetic arm for one of their clients, and it’s kept him busy all day, to the point where he’s brought his work laptop home with him (something he swore he wouldn’t do when he first started his engineering work, and a rule that is now broken on an almost nightly basis) and is poring over the blueprints.

“If I wire it this way… and connect the joints through here,” he mutters to himself, chewing on the end of his note-scribbling pen as he thinks. “Then I should be able to… yes!”

Breakthroughs are always satisfying, especially when they come off a full hour of combing through circuits and wracking his brain for how he can make everything more efficient, more realistic. Dean sets his pen down, saves the file on his laptop, then sits up from his hunched position on his couch. His back pops as he stretches—it’s only when he moves out of uncomfortable positions like these that he realizes just how badly he’s been sitting, and how deeply engrossed he’s been in his work. Still, the stretch feels amazing after staying still for so long, and he sighs happily.

His stomach rumbles.

 _How the fuck is it nine already?_ Dean thinks as he checks the clock on his laptop for the first time in what feels like one hour but was, in actual fact, three. Fucking hell, he can imagine the bitchface Sam would give him if he found out Dean was forgetting to feed himself before 9pm on a Thursday night. It’s times like this that make him think he really needs to get his shit together.

But he _has_ his shit together… just not when it comes to the household chores side of life. Which _isn’t_ to say that he thinks that that responsibility would fall to an omega, if he was mated. No, Dean’s an adult who’s capable of making his own dinner and washing his own laundry… if he weren’t so crazy busy and easily distracted by shiny new challenges.

He pulls himself up off the couch with a groan and makes his way over to the kitchen, which may as well be covered in dust apart from the microwave and the small patch of countertop where he makes his cereal every morning. There’s a stack of takeaway menus by the stove, and Dean pulls one out at random, already knowing full well that all he’s got in the fridge are a few beers, some leftover slices of cheese, and a yoghurt so old that he’s legitimately worried it might wave at him if he opens it. The menu is the one for the Thai place just down the block, which at least means that he can go pick it up in person and stretch his legs—because he sure as hell didn’t make it to the gym like he planned tonight.

Once the phone call has been made, and his usual combination of food ordered, Dean sinks back down onto the couch to wait out the twenty minutes until he has to leave. Resisting the urge to power his laptop back up, because god knows how much time will magically pass by if he does, he instead settles for turning on the TV and distracting himself with whatever happens to be on. It’s not particularly riveting, but it holds his attention enough for him to resist the call of semi-complete blueprints, and it’s not long before the alarm he set to leave is going off.

Shoes on, coat on, wallet and apartment keys in his pockets (because he’s definitely forgotten both of those before, distracted by work). He’s good to go.

The hallway outside his apartment is quiet, with no signs of his neighbors. Not that he’s met the newest one who’s moved into the apartment right next to his, number 304, but everyone seems to either be out and about tonight, or hiding away in their homes—like Dean is going to be in ten minutes’ time. It’s fine by him, though, since he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow that’s starting to get longer than he’d like, and he very clearly has not been getting the recommended eight hours a night. His neighbors know that he works hard, but he’s kinda like to make a bit of a better impression on the new person.

Which is why (because fate fucking hates him sometimes), Dean fails to check whether the elevator is occupied before he steps into it, and almost shoulder checks the poor guy trying to get out on this floor.

“Shit—fuck, dude, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he says, putting out his hands to keep one or both of them from falling over. Beneath the baggy trench coat is _muscle_ , and the guy’s eyes are _blue_ , and when he inhales sharply, he can scent spices and woodsmoke and _omega_.

“I—um.” Dean still has one hand on the man’s bicep, and another on his chest, and they’re so close that he can feel the heat radiating off his body. “Hi.”

The man’s lips quirk up into a small, amused smile. “Hello,” he says, and his voice is a deep, soothing rumble that makes Dean weak at the knees. “Do you usually accost people as they exit the elevator on this floor?”

Dean pulls his hands back so fast the he almost loses his balance again. It feels like the man’s scent is filling his nose and clouding his brain—so strong and warm and homely. “No, no I don’t. It’s been a long day, I must’ve been on autopilot.”

“So where are you headed now?” The man looks him up and down, takes in his jacket and his weary posture. Dean can’t help but feel like he’s being… appraised. _Considered_.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to stand up a little taller. “There’s a Thai place not far from here, I’m going out to pick up my dinner. Are you… visiting someone?” He hasn’t seen the guy here before, but he’s often so absorbed in his work that that doesn’t always mean much.

The man’s brows crease in a small frown when Dean mentions his takeout plans, but then it smooths away and is replaced by a smile. “I’m on my way home from work,” he says, gesturing to the satchel hanging from his shoulder. “I live on this floor. Number 304?”

 _Oh_.

“You’re my new neighbor,” Dean realizes—this handsome omega is a far cry from the grumpy beta lady who had inhabited the apartment before. “I’m in 303, just next door. I—“

The elevator beeps at them. They’ve been standing in the doorway for almost a minute now, keeping the doors from closing, and clearly it’s had enough. The sound makes them both jump, and they shuffle around each other until Dean is standing inside the elevator and the other guy is in the hallway. “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” the man says, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “What’s your name?”

“Dean. Yours?”

“Castiel,” the guy replies, just as the elevator doors slide closed. The last thing Dean sees is his grin and those beautiful blue eyes.

~

Dean thinks about the omega in the apartment next door over the next few days. Whenever he’s not knee-deep in work and designing, it feels as though those blue eyes linger at the edges of his consciousness, graveled voice and the scent of smoke and spices curling through his dreams. He wakes up hard outside of a rut for the first time since he was a teenager, and spends a long time staring up at the ceiling and thinking about Castiel on the other side of the wall.

What is he doing? What is he thinking?

_Is he thinking about Dean?_

With how much pressure he’s under at work, though, he doesn’t get all that much time to consider his options, let alone actually go over and introduce himself to the guy without crashing into him on the threshold of an elevator. He has concepts due, designs to plan, manufacturers and materials sources to talk to. ‘Spare time’ isn’t a concept in his vocabulary at the moment, and he’s pretty sure that he always smells just a little bit stressed and more than a little bit tired.

He wouldn’t trade his job for anything, but sometimes it does get a little hectic.

This time, his busy schedule means long nights sketching and writing up plans, an absolute minimum number of hours’ sleep, and a truly unhealthy diet of nearby takeout. It’s only for the next week or two, because he’s under a time crunch, but even a week feels agonizingly long. He almost reaches the point where he misses having the  _opportunity to_  cook for himself or go for a run at the park—even if he’s not likely to take them. It would be nice to have the _option_.

Which is why it’s a welcome surprise when he opens his door one evening to find a Tupperware box sitting on the ground in front of him. There’s a note attached.

_Dear Dean. I hope I’m not imposing, but you’ve smelled stressed these past few days, and your lights are always on when I get home late at night. I made some extra pasta and I thought you might appreciate it—please let me know what you think. Castiel._

Dean reads the note, then rereads it. It’s only on the third re-read that he realizes he’s smiling down at the piece of paper like a fool, and he quickly looks up to check that no one has seen him. The corridor is clear.

The food in the Tupperware smells fucking incredible, and since there’s no sign of his generous neighbor, he takes both note and box back into his apartment. It doesn’t look like he’ll be needing to dine out tonight.

He puts the container into the microwave (that’s the right thing to do, right? It feels almost wrong considering how good the pasta smells and that fact that it’s freaking _homemade_ ) and waits for it to heat up. The smell seems to get impossibly better as the time ticks down, and by the time it reaches zero, Dean is practically salivating. He’s had a long enough day that at this point, anything would smell good, but this is just on another level.

Still, if Castiel went to all the effort of leaving this for Dean, he really shouldn’t just let himself eat it straight out of the container like an animal. No, he scoops the pasta out onto a plate, grabs a knife and fork, and sits at his table like a civilized person before allowing himself to start eating.

The first bite is _heavenly_.

Dean groans around his fork, eyes sliding closed as butter and cream and spices dance across his tongue. Anything homemade is better than the takeout Dean has been eating for so long, but this… this is on a level of its own. Fucking hell, Cas is good at this.

He demolishes the rest of it, trying to focus on savouring the flavors but still finishing it in what must be record time. He even scrapes the plate for the last little bits of sauce, then sits back. When was the last time he’s felt this fully-fed and happy?

 _So this is what it’s like to be a fully-functioning adult_ , he thinks with a grin, shaking his head. At least there’s _someone_ looking out for him—and if it’s his hot neighbor? Even better. 

~

Returning an empty dish, even if it’s clean, feels weird. Dean is nowhere near good enough at cooking to be able to fill it with anything that compares to the pasta Cas had made him, though, so in the end he stops staring at it and rewashing it and just… goes over. Empty dish and all.

Castiel opens the door to his second knock.

He’s wearing a flour-dusted apron and his hair is a mess, but when he sees Dean, his already-happy expression lights up. “Dean! Hello, I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come by. How was the pasta?”

“Incredible,” Dean answers honestly. “I couldn’t even dream of making something that good. Or making anything at all, really,” he says sheepishly. “I’m always too damn busy or tired to cook. How’d you get so good?”

Cas shrugs one shoulder as he takes the empty container back, and looks down at his flour-covered self. “I work as a chef. It’s kind of my job.”

That explains a lot, then. “You’re really fucking good at your job, then,” Dean tells him with a grin. He can smell something fantastic baking in Cas’s apartment, but even with the overwhelming sweetness, he can still pick out Cas’s scent beneath; that woodsmoke and spice. It’s a thousand times better than anything or anyone else he’s ever scented.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and it snaps Dean out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I would invite you in, but things are a bit messy right now.” He pauses, shifts his weight from foot to foot, then looks back up at Dean with what looks like a hint of hope on his face. “Maybe next time?”

Dean can feel his cheeks starting to blush, and he’s nodding before he even realizes he’s doing it. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. I won’t keep you now, though—thanks again, and good luck with the, um, the baking!”

His head is still spinning when he closes his apartment door behind him and leans back against the wood. Those blue eyes, that incredible scent, the _food_ … The way to Dean’s heart has always been through his stomach, and the fact that his stunning new neighbor is also a professional chef might just be the death of him.

But what a good death it will be. 

~

For the next week or so, they don’t really see each other much. Dean is incredibly busy putting the finishing touches on a new range of testing equipment, and drags himself home late in the evening, too tired to do much more than make some two minute noodles and fall into bed.

On the third night of this pattern, he comes home at ten thirty to find a container of soup sitting in front of his door. The note on it reads:

_I hope you’re doing okay—not to be nosy, but you’ve been getting home very late. I made this for you, so that you’re at least eating some real food. I hope you like it._

Even after such a long day, it’s enough to make Dean smile like a fool for the next hour. When he goes to sleep that night, he thinks of the omega on the other side of the wall, and of spices and smoke and _blue_.

~

Every night from then on, Cas leaves him food.

Each container has a note. _This is my one of my favourite meals_ , or _I’m trying this out for my restaurant, tell me what you think_. Some are short, some are longer, and they get more personal as time wears on. It’s clear that Cas is thinking about him, even if they’re always passing by like ships in the night.

Dean writes back, too. He leaves the empty containers by Cas’s door, always hesitating for a moment as he wonders whether he should knock. Is Cas home? Does he want to be bothered? If he answers the door, what would Dean say?

In the end, he always puts his note with the container— _Thank you, it was delicious, I’ve loved this ever since I was a pup_ —and leaves without knocking.

Through the notes, he tells Cas about his work, about his family, about cooking with his mom when he was younger. He learns that Cas has been cooking ever since he was young, but that he’s always had aspirations much bigger than the ‘perfect househusband’ stereotype his parents had believed in. He’s funny and creative and genuinely loves what he does—and for some reason, he cares about Dean and making sure he’s eating proper, healthy, home-cooked meals.

Dean definitely isn’t complaining on that front.

They both keep such strange hours that it’s rare that they meet in the elevator, or the hallway, or the lobby, but when they do, they always get caught up in their conversation. Even if Dean is already running late for work, if he sees Cas, there’s no way he can (or would  _want to_ ) ever cut their conversation short. It’s quite the opposite—time seems to fly whenever he’s with Cas, and no amount of it is ever enough. He gets caught in those eyes, in the beauty of his voice, in the dry humour and genuine care he brings to every conversation they have.

He’s a goner. And he really, _really_ wants to ask Cas out on a date.

He’s just not sure how.

 _Yet_.

~

Finally, though, the project he’s working on comes to an end, and he gets a chance to have a day off. A full day, all to himself, to do whatever he’d like and not have to worry about anything work-related. He could spend the full twenty-four hours asleep, if he wanted to.

Instead, he resolves to pay Cas back.

He’s never really _tried_ to be good at cooking. When he was younger, he’d cook with his mom, but after she died they’d never had anything fancy anyway, and when he presented as alpha, his dad had insisted that he wouldn’t need to learn. That he’d find a nice omega who could cook for him—that the kitchen is no place for an alpha.

Dean has never believed that. He’s just never had the time to learn. But now, with a full day to himself and the pressing guilt of having not yet returned Cas’s generosity, he turns to the internet in order to learn.

There’s no shortage of recipes out there, but it’s been so long since Dean really tried to make a good quality meal that he ends up browsing YouTube and looking for something a little more _informative_. All he wants to make is a steak, but everyone has their own ideas on how to cook it, and it’s more than a little overwhelming.

He browses through the videos that his search of ‘how to cook a steak meal’ has produced, and clicks on one at random. It’s made by a channel called Angel Cooking, and has a pretty damn high number of views. It has to be helpful, right?

The video opens onto a shot of a kitchen. It’s a nice-looking, homely kitchen—a similar set-up to Dean’s, which is going to be infinitely helpful—and it’s warm and well-lit. Inviting. Immediately, it sets Dean at ease. A man walks into the frame, his face just off-camera but his broad shoulders and nice forearms accentuated by rolled-up sleeves and a dark apron. Even without seeing his face, Dean figures he must be a pretty good looking guy. Maybe he’ll stay on this video, then, and see what this guy has to say.

And then he must open his mouth, because the voice that comes through Dean’s speakers is deep and gravelly and one that is _intimately familiar_. Dean’s jaw drops.

It’s Cas.

He’d recognize the voice anywhere (totally hasn’t fantasized about it ever since the first day that they met), and everything else begins to fall into place. The apron is the same one that he’s seen covered in flour. The kitchen is almost the same as Dean’s because they live in the _same fucking apartment complex_.

He pauses the video, then says, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

When Dean digs into Cas’s YouTube a little more, he finds out that Cas has over fifty cooking tutorials and over a million subscribers. He clearly knows his shit, and he’d be a good person to learn from, but it’s going to be more difficult to impress him with one of his own recipes.

Then again, if Dean can impress him with one of his own recipes…

It’s worth a shot, right?

He clicks back to the video, then checks the list of ingredients in the description. It’s a decent list, but it’ll be worth it if he manages to pull this off and really impress Cas. _God_ , he wants to impress him so badly—to show that he can be a good cook, a good alpha (a good mate). He can do this.

~

The ingredients list contains a few things Dean has never used before, and a few things he’s never even  _heard of_ , so he’s definitely a little worried that he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He trusts Cas to be kind to the general population and not try to teach them anything too complicated, though, so once he’s visited the grocery store and is settled back in his kitchen with his meat and all his other ingredients waiting, he sets his laptop up in a good spot and plays the video once more.

The footage never shows Cas’s face, but that’s fine; his hands are mesmerizing to watch, and his voice is so low and calming that Dean very quickly gets lost in it.

It’s easy enough to follow the instructions, with how clear and encouraging Cas makes them, and Dean can  _picture_ the smile on his face as he made this video. There’s no doubt that he loves what he does. Dean gets caught up in the video, the experience of cooking, the relaxation and the sense of satisfaction that comes from _making_ something from _scratch_. His kitchen is filled with the aroma of cooking meat and spices and the happiness in his own scent.

Dean is halfway through putting together the potato side when there’s a knock on the door of his apartment.

He’s in the cooking zone now, so he’s not too pleased about being interrupted, but he doesn’t get visitors too often. Surely whoever’s on the other side of the door can’t want anything too important. He pauses the video, checks on his steaks, then wipes his hands on a dish towel and heads over to the door. “Hey, what can I do for—“ he starts, but his words die on his tongue as he sees who’s standing in front of him.

It’s _Cas_.

The omega stands with his hands in his pockets, dressed in a nice button-down and jeans and with his hair more combed than Dean has ever seen it before. He smiles as Dean’s words peter off. “Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Cas, I—what are you doing here?” Dean’s plan had been to invite Cas over for a date only _after_ he’d figured out whether he was any good at this cooking thing—it’s not impressive to try and woo anyone with a half-burnt steak and some too-salty potatoes, after all—but Cas showing up unexpectedly on his doorstep has… derailed Dean’s brain just a little bit.

Cas raises his eyebrows. “I, um. I didn’t realize I was out of sugar until I went to start baking, and I was wondering if you had any?”

Dean? Having cooking staples in his apartment? He can’t hide his smile, and shakes his head in amusement. “Dunno if you noticed, since you took it upon yourself to feed me so that I wouldn’t be eating takeout and microwave meals all month, but I’m not exactly the poster boy for home cooking. I’ve got some store-bought cookies and a bag of skittles somewhere in my kitchen, but apart from that, no sugar.”

Cas snorts and nods his head as if to say _fair enough_ , his cheeks blushing pink. “I probably should have assumed that, yes. But—“ He pauses, tilts his head, then very clearly scents the air. It’s at that moment that Dean realizes—the smell from his kitchen, of cooking steaks and roasting potatoes, is wafting out into the hallway. Cas’s eyes go wide. “Are you cooking? I—if you’re expecting someone, or, um, _entertaining_ … I’m sorry if I bothered you, I’ll just—“

He’s stepping back now, a sharp bitterness lancing through his usually-warm scent, and Dean’s alpha reacts on instinct. He steps forward and wraps his fingers around Cas’s wrist—enough to pause his trajectory, but loose enough that he could pull away if he wanted.

“Wait.”

Cas pauses, looks down at where Dean is holding his wrist, then back up to meet his gaze.

This was not the way Dean had wanted to spring his surprise to Castiel, but now he’s kinda backed himself into a corner, and he doesn’t really have a choice. “You’ve given me so many meals,” he begins with, “and so many lovely conversations and notes to make me smile and keep me from starving to death while work was kicking my ass. I just… wanted to do something nice for you in return. I’m no fantastic cook, though, so I didn’t want to tell you in advance in case I fucked it up,” he says, with a self-deprecating smile. “So, uh… I guess the person I was expecting is… you.”

Cas’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks somewhat shell-shocked by Dean’s outpouring, but gradually his lips curl up into a smile that grows wider by the second, until he’s beaming happily. “You mean that?”

Dean nods, his fingers squeezing around Cas’s wrist just a little.

The bitterness in the omega’s scent is gone now; he is warmth and spices and the embrace of a roaring hearth, and it makes Dean’s alpha sing. “For what it’s worth,” Cas says, stepping back into Dean’s orbit, close enough for Dean to feel his body heat, “it smells amazing. What did you make, to impress me with?”

And then Dean remembers the video on pause on his laptop, the way he’s been following Cas’s very own video for the last hour in an attempt to recreate his recipe. Oh man, this is too fucking good. He grins, bites his lip, and makes a show of wracking his brain. “It’s a recipe by some YouTube chef for—what was it… oh, yeah, it’s a steak with mustard and mushroom sauce, and sides of potatoes and asparagus. Some channel called Angel Cooking?”

Cas’s lips part in surprise, and Dean laughs at the pink that colours his cheeks. “You told me you were a chef, not a full-blown YouTube star,” he teases gently.

“I don’t, I—I _am_ a chef,” Cas points out, flustered. “I have my own restaurant, Dean, the YouTube thing is for fun. I like teaching people.”

“Yeah?” Dean inclines his head back towards his apartment, grinning. “Then do you want to come in and teach me how to fix this sauce? It’s not meant to have lumps in it, right?”

“Oh my god, Dean,” Cas mutters, but there’s a smile on his face. He shifts his hand out of Dean’s grip, but instead of pulling away— _please don’t turn me down, I like you so damn much that I bought a cast-iron pan for this and those fuckers cost a fortune_ —he gently takes Dean’s hand in his.

Dean looks down at their intertwined fingers, then back up, his heart beating double-time in his chest. Cas’s eyes and his smile are soft.

“Let’s go see what you’ve done to this poor sauce." 

~

Dean has never loved cooking as much as he loves cooking with Cas. And when they get to sit down at the dinner table with a bottle of wine and share what they’ve made together? It’s even fucking better. They get to know each other more than they have over their series of short conversations and shared notes, and Cas is more wonderful than Dean could ever have dreamed. He can’t help but thank the universe for bringing him into the orbit of this stunning, talented, quick-witted omega who is everything Dean could have ever wanted in a partner.

“So how were my cooking efforts?” he asks Cas, now that their plates are cleared and they’re sitting at the table, looking out at the city lights in the darkness. Castiel has almost finished his glass of wine, and his other hand is resting on Dean’s, thumb stroking slowly over his skin.

“You were spot-on with those steaks, I’ll give you that,” Cas tells him, and his blue eyes sparkle in the dimmed light. “The sauce… needs some practice. Does this mean you’re going to start cooking for yourself now?”

“Why, are you gonna stop feeding your poor, helpless, overworked neighbor? Because your food is way better than anything I could make.”

Cas looks up at him, the corner of his mouth curving up into a smile. “I like cooking for you,” he says simply. “It makes me happy. But I’m sure it would be even nicer if you were to come over for us to share a meal, rather than me just leaving it at your door?”

The end of his sentence trails off into a question, and a hint of uncertainty laces through his scent—as though he could possibly think that Dean _wouldn’t_ want to share meals with him, or cook with him, or even spend time with him doing absolutely anything. He _wants_ to get to know Cas.

“That sounds even better,” he says, and when Cas’s expression softens, the insecurity fading away, Dean can’t help himself. He reaches up and curls his fingers over the curve of Cas’s jaw, leans in, and kisses him.

He tastes of spices and the sweetness of the wine, and Dean could happily kiss him for hours, especially with the way Cas winds his arms around Dean’s neck, and sweeps his tongue over the seam of Dean’s lips. It’s the perfect combination of sweet and hot, and it steals Dean’s breath away.

When they separate for air, neither of them can keep the smiles off their faces.

“You know, if we had dessert, this would be the perfect date,” Dean murmurs, brushing his thumb over Cas’s cheekbone.

The omega’s eyes sparkle. “You mentioned that you like pie, didn’t you? We can always go over to my apartment and I can show you how to make one. That was going to be my next video, and my next gift to you, after all,” he says, and there’s an amused curve to his lips.

Dean squints suspiciously at him. “I thought you were out of sugar?”

The sly amusement becomes a grin that’s only a little bashful. “That may have been a ruse I came up with to come over and talk to you,” Cas admits, “so that I could ask you out on a date. It never occurred to me that you don’t have _any_ cooking staples in your kitchen, you animal.”

Dean can only blink at him for a few moments, processing this new information—and then he grins, bright and wide, and pulls Castiel in for another kiss. “Then let’s go make some pie,” he murmurs against Cas’s lips, “and turn this into the perfect date.”

**Author's Note:**

> I would not have met Nadia, and a great number of my fandom friends, without the wonderful discord server Profound Bond. If you're a Destiel writer, artist, or just all-round fan looking for a community, this is the one to get in on.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave a kudos and/or a comment! You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) <3


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